


The Emperor in One Word

by linman



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, consumption of spiritous liquors, some flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linman/pseuds/linman
Summary: Couriers' drinking games can be dangerous.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 91





	The Emperor in One Word

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd self-indulgence: missing-scene fic from my favorite pandemic comfort read.

“Come to the Stables tonight,” Aru said, as Csevet was walking him down to the grilles.

“We can’t,” said Csevet, with a pained look. “Surely you understand—”

“You can,” Aru argued, as Csevet checked discreetly to be sure they were out of earshot of the guards up the landing. “The emperor will be at the goblin dinner, and you can surely get a few hours off duty while he’s thus occupied.”

“Goblins don’t dine late,” Csevet said, as if he hadn’t discovered this only two days ago. Not that it fooled Aru, who gave him a look. “His Serenity will be back before late evening, and he will surely—” _need_ , he edited himself with hardly a blink— “want the services of his secretary before he retires.”

“You’ve forgotten the brothers you left behind,” Aru said, with a reproachful cluck of his tongue.

“I certainly have _not_ ,” Csevet hissed, dropping formality before he could stop himself. He knew Aru had said it to bait him, but it stung nonetheless.

“Then come and have a drink with us.” _Us_ meaning his old circle of friends in the courier cadre. For a moment Csevet pictured it: a raucous evening in one of the common rooms of the old stable block that had been made over into dormitories for the couriers; himself with his feet up and his collar undone, laughing at the others’ idle jokes. The last time he’d done that, he hadn’t known it _was_ the last time.

Aru could read his thoughts no matter how well he schooled his expression. “Come on,” he coaxed. “It’ll do thee good.”

“Dost not understand?” Csevet stopped dead halfway down the last flight, and Aru belatedly stopped a step below him. “I _can’t_ . I can’t leave the Alcethmeret to go and drink. What if I’m waylaid on the way back? Or the way _there_ , for that matter? Thou knowest the court’s a tinderbox right now. I’m not _safe_.”

“Thou art afraid?” Aru blinked up at him. He sounded half unwilling to believe it.

 _Not safe for you_ , Csevet thought. _Not safe for Him_. He had half made up his mind to let Aru think him a craven fool, when Aru said promptly: “How if three or four of us escort thee there and back?”

Csevet couldn’t stop a small groan at the thought of a crowd of drunken couriers walking him back through the halls of the Untheileneise Court. Aru must have pictured it too, because he grinned.

“Then we’ll come to thee,” he said.

“That’s...even worse,” Csevet said, faintly. To his horror, Aru responded to this by leaning in and grinning wider.

“I’ll come by myself, then, shall I?” he said, very low.

“Aru!” Csevet felt his ears flense hot.

“No, I suppose thou’rt right,” Aru said, cheerfully. “I’ll watch for the end of the Ambassador’s dinner, and give thee a chance to see His Serenity settled, and then I’ll bring a party to thy quarters. A _discreet_ party,” he added, before Csevet could voice a protest. “A party just dripping with solemn courierly discretion.” And other things, presumably.

Csevet groaned again.

Aru was already dropping lightly down the rest of the stairs. At the bottom he turned and swept Csevet an affectionately mocking bow. “Till later then, Mer Aisava,” he said, and was gone before Csevet could muster a reply.

*

Despite the fact that it was tucked into a (relatively) warm corner of the Alcethmeret and respectably appointed with aging but quality furniture, Csevet’s quarters one level above the pneumatic station were not actually more commodious for entertaining than the Stables. For Csevet alone there was plenty of room, but for Csevet plus six couriers whose decorum slid noticeably as soon as they were through the door, it was frankly crowded. Aru stretched out on Csevet’s bed, but was nudged back into a sitting position to make room for Themis, while Nera, Dalu, and Aneret fought for a seat on the cushion Csevet usually used to prop himself up to read in bed with, and Ermis plunked himself down on the rug next to the tiny coal grate, leaving Csevet with the straight-backed chair that served his desk tucked in the corner.

But shortly after they arrived and were pulling out flasks of metheglin from capacious pockets, a boy from the kitchens knocked at Csevet’s door with a large tray. “Dachensol Ebremis says you might want some extra glassware this evening,” he explained, and indeed there were seven glasses tucked into the side racks of the tray, which held a covered dish that proved to contain a neat pile of little sandwiches and a dark, squat bottle. Ermis opened this and sniffed; his eyes crossed and he sat up sharply. “Anise liqueur,” he reported. “Very _strong_ anise liqueur.”

“Strong how?” Aru said. “Taste-wise or alcohol-wise?”

“Any wise,” Ermis said. “Here, have some.” He poured a generous measure into one of the glasses.

“Give it to Csevet,” Aru said, and the glass was pressed into his hands before he could stop it. Other glasses were filled variously with the liqueur and other spirits, and passed to waiting hands.

“What shall we drink to?” said Dalu. “Besides the health of the emperor, that is.”

Csevet opened his mouth to say that the health of the emperor was enough of a wish for him, but at the same time Aru said: “Why, to Csevet’s new service, of course.”

“True. We never got to say farewell properly.”

“Hear, hear.” They all raised their glasses in salute, and Csevet took a sip from his, blinking a sting from his eyes that wasn’t entirely due to the alcohol. The liqueur was indeed very strong; Csevet resolved immediately to nurse it carefully in case His Serenity called him back.

Between sandwiches and refills of drinks, the couriers filled Csevet in on all the gossip that had flowed through the courier service since he’d left. Most of it Csevet had picked up by means of his own, but some of it was new, and he filed it away mentally to collate later. The evening passed, and Csevet realized gradually that his old friends had chosen deliberately not to pry for juicy details about the new emperor and his household, though surely their curiosity had grown whet-sharp by now. Perhaps they were waiting for Csevet himself to open the subject; but they must have guessed by now that the ship of Edrehasivar’s household could only have been kept so leak-tight by a former courier. In return for their courtesy, Csevet forbore to ask them how well he’d done his job.

“Dalu,” said Aneret, “Reshema’s letter from Count Nethenel. In one sentence.”

“It only _was_ one sentence,” protested Dalu. “And how didst thou know I’d seen it?”

“Because thou wast the one he switched shifts with,” Aneret said. “So thou must have been on duty when it came in.” Dalu winced at this impeccable logic, and Ermis laughed.

The couriers of the Untheileneise Court had developed a quick shorthand for passing information among themselves. Because they often had very little unobserved time in which to open, read, and carefully reseal any missives that passed through their hands, couriers were obliged to read and digest the contents quickly, and prided themselves on their ability to retail gossip in as pithy a form as possible. They were far enough into their cups now to start playing the time-honored game of demanding intelligence in ever-shorter phrasing. Csevet hid a smile in his cup.

“Art thou still on thy first glass, Csevet?” Nera demanded. If they’d been at the Stables, they would all have been in further stages of careless undress by now, but everyone here had kept their boots on, and though Aru had shrugged out of his jacket, the rest of them had done no more than loosen their cravats. Except for Csevet, who hadn’t loosened anything.

“Csevet,” Aru said, “it’s late enough. He’s not going to call thee. Drink thy liqueur and relax.”

No sooner had he said it than a brisk tap sounded on Csevet’s door.

In the sudden silence, Csevet slanted them all a sardonic look, put down his glass, and went to answer it.

It was Nemer. “Mer Aisava,” he began, and paused, seeing past Csevet into a roomful of inquisitive couriers, who were staring at him like a nest of bright-eyed, slightly drunk ferrets. But the edocharis recovered neatly. “His Serenity knows it is late, but he asks if you would come and speak to him briefly about a small matter before he retires.”

“Certainly we will, Nemer,” Csevet said. “We will come now.” With a brief look over his shoulder so much as to say, _Be good_ , Csevet slipped out of his room and shut the door to follow Nemer up the stairs.

*

Edrehasivar was quick on the uptake, and getting quicker, Csevet reflected on his way back down. He hadn’t been so preoccupied as not to notice Csevet’s suggestion that he use the evening to write to Dach’osmin Ceredin personally. But it was only Csevet’s great luck that Edrehasivar hadn’t realized that Csevet might have an underlying reason for giving him an occupying task.

Yet.

If only the young emperor’s frank consternation hadn’t brought to mind Aru’s teasing of the morning. Of course Csevet wouldn’t have been so stupid as to bring Aru to his room alone at a time like this; but what if he _had_? Edrehasivar wasn’t wrong; Csevet no longer had a courier’s freedom to exchange pleasantries and pleasures with his friends out of scrutiny of the court. And though the emperor was clearly embarrassed by his own candor, Csevet read in it a truth that had slowly been rising to clarity the last six weeks.

Edrehasivar let Csevet “manage” him almost as easily as Lord Chavar did. But never in a thousand years would Chavar notice half the little leading ways that Csevet and his other subordinates steered him this way and that. Edrehasivar noticed everything. And put up with it. Tactically.

The emperor’s hypervigilance was mostly, Csevet knew, due to a terror of disaster that Csevet suspected was chronic. Varenechibel and Osmer Nelar between them had much to answer for, he thought. Edrehasivar let himself be managed when it was the best option for insulating himself from panic; this afternoon, he’d let Csevet take the lead before the Corazhas in the matter of choosing his empress, and then (clearly to Csevet’s practiced eye) taken note of the strategy as it unfolded. But that state of affairs wasn’t going to last forever. Sooner or later he was going to start identifying goals other than evading disaster. And Csevet’s habitual method of dealing with superiors at court was barely usable with him _now_.

Managing Edrehasivar Drazhar would take a level of subtlety Csevet didn’t think he could reach. But he didn’t have the stature to win the man’s trust as an equal, and they both knew it.

Csevet looked down at the letter in his hand. It was clearly a brief one; the sharpness of the creases testified to that. Edrehasivar had placed the imprint of his new signet precisely and clearly in the center of the wax. Csevet felt tears gathering in his eyes, and it took him a full flight of stairs before he realized why.

He truly was not a courier anymore. Six weeks ago he’d have thought nothing of easing up the seal and reading the contents of this letter, would have done it as casually as breathing, would have made use of the intelligence for whatever was needed. Now, he knew he ought to read this letter; he was practically obliged to. For Edrehasivar’s own sake he should open the letter and read it: and he didn’t want to.

He sniffed hard and shook himself, and by the time he reached his own door, his composure was back in place.

The first thing Csevet noticed when he went in was that the sandwiches were all gone. The second thing he noticed, as he crossed the room to his desk, was that someone had refilled his liqueur glass. He took out his key and unlocked the desk drawer, glancing casually in the direction of the others, aware of six pairs of bright, interested eyes.

They were couriers; they couldn’t resist. “So what did His Serenity want?” said Aneret.

“He wanted to add something to tomorrow’s dispatch,” Csevet answered, easily.

“Art going to read the letter?”

“It’s just routine,” Csevet said, sliding the letter neatly into the drawer. He locked it back, slipped the key on its fine chain back in his pocket, and picked up his practically-brimming glass as he sat down. They watched him take a deep pull of the powerful liqueur.

“I take it His Serenity has now gone to bed,” Aru said dryly. 

“He has,” Csevet said. “Are there really no more sandwiches?”

The sandwiches were indeed all eaten, but they took Csevet’s cue, and retraced the conversation to where it had been when he came in. Aru, however, was watching the level of Csevet’s glass, and when it had sunk three quarters, he sat up and pinned Csevet with his gaze.

“Csevet,” he said, and the others shut up to look at him.

“Edrehasivar,” Aru said. “In one word.”

They looked back at Csevet with inebriate glee. Csevet rolled another sip on his tongue and considered the challenge.

Despite the (really quite powerful) liqueur, Csevet’s protective instincts had leapt up at once. There were a thousand ways his choice of word could go wrong, redounding to disaster far beyond this little bedroom.

 _Young_. Obvious no, though it was manifestly the word Edrehasivar would have chosen for himself. With that word crowded a dozen connotations of inexperience and callow ignorance and petulance and instability. Weakness; vulnerability. Subordinacy.

 _Observant_. A less obvious no, but a no all the same. Edrehasivar wasn’t just watching the court because it amused him. He was in too much danger for that. _Vigilant_ wouldn’t work either, as underlining that danger.

Csevet could think of any number of wrong words that outside observers would come up with. Awkward. Timid. Foreign. Frozen. Inarticulate. “Half-tongue,” indeed. How dare they. Let them be shut up for ten years in a miserable house in the murky middle of nowhere, and see if _they_ show up brilliant and glib and polished, Csevet thought. The lot of them put together didn’t have half Edrehasivar’s guts. There was a word in that somewhere; Csevet followed the thread through the murk, searching for it. But to his horror, he realized he had already opened his mouth.

“Furious,” he heard himself say.

The couriers blinked, looked at one another. It was clearly not the word they’d been expecting. A dangerous word, Csevet thought, a little too drunk to feel the terror he knew he ought to be feeling. A furious emperor had a vastly destructive power at his fingertips; he could do anything, and only his own will stopped him. Yet that was exactly the case. Edrehasivar hadn’t taken revenge on Setheris Nelar, though Csevet strongly suspected he deserved it. Sheveän had had to come up with a pretext for accusing him of insulting Varenechibel. He’d doggedly, willfully, stubbornly, shown kindness where none was expected, sometimes even where it wasn’t wanted, not because he wasn’t angry, but because he was.

From the moment he’d arrived at court, Edrehasivar had poked and picked at the structures of his father’s casual cruelty, and torn them down at every opportunity, with every ounce of vehemence it was wise for him to show. The considerable will that made him so difficult to handle made him safer to trust than ever Varenechibel had been. Safer to follow. Safer to love.

Csevet’s eyes focused and found Aru’s. “Don’t underestimate him, you’re saying,” Aru said, serious and wary.

“That, too.” Csevet held out his glass; Ermis poured more liqueur.

Some uncertain time later, the couriers were getting up to go, talking to one another in quiet murmurs. The easy mood of earlier in the evening had returned somewhat, but the laughter at each other’s jokes was muted. This was still the Alcethmeret, after all. Feeling obscurely that he should see them out like a good host, Csevet prepared to rise from his chair, but found he could muster no more than a slight pressing of his feet against the floor. “Oh dear,” he said, with a slow clarity that made his old friends chuckle.

“Good night, Csevet. Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out.” Csevet smiled vaguely as they thumped his shoulder affectionately and gave the room a perfunctory tidy before slipping out the door.

“Aru,” Csevet said, “wilt stay?”

“Yes,” Aru said, shutting the door. “I’ll even put thee to bed, if thou likest.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Csevet enunciated. Aru poured a glass of water from the washstand ewer and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Csevet said, taking it. “Ugh. I need to sober up. Early day tomorrow.”

“They’re all early days, sounds like.”

“I don’t mind.”

Aru was standing before him, his golden-brown eyes grave in his dark face. “Art not going to read that letter,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Csevet sighed, and sipped his water.

“Dost want me to?”

“I don’t know if _want_ is the word, exactly.”

“I can if thou wish,” Aru said. “Somehow, I have been given the honor of carrying the imperial dispatch to Marquess Ceredel.”

Csevet swallowed a smile. Aru smiled mischievously back.

“Just,” Csevet sighed, “warn me of any disaster. Wilt thou?”

“I will. Good night, Csevet.” Aru dropped a light kiss on the top of Csevet’s head, and was gone, with a flick of his scarlet-ribboned queue.

“Good night,” Csevet said, to the empty room.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I know there's no Earl of Sandwich in this 'verse, but you can't tell me the Ethuveraz doesn't have finger foods with filling between bread. Whatever their word for it may be.


End file.
